


Kin

by lordbyronsbloomers



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbyronsbloomers/pseuds/lordbyronsbloomers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the suitcase Jakes saw first.</p><p>On the carpet, beside his coffee table, sat a small lemon yellow suitcase with a tarnished silver handle that he would have recognized anywhere. He blinked, confused. His head, already swimming slightly from one too many drinks at the King's Arms, suddenly felt ready to burst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kin

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between the events of 'Trove' and 'Nocturne'
> 
> Contains minor spoilers for 'Neverland'

It was the suitcase Jakes saw first.

On the carpet, beside his coffee table, sat a small lemon yellow suitcase with a tarnished silver handle that he would have recognized anywhere. He blinked, confused. His head, already swimming slightly from one too many drinks at the King's Arms, suddenly felt ready to burst.

The bedsit was dark, save for the stream of moonlight that was shining through the half-closed blinds onto the suitcase, and Jakes groped for the light-switch with a shaking hand. The light flickered on, hopelessly dim, and Jakes made a mental note to change the lightbulb. But it was bright enough for him to see what he needed to see. His eyes fell on the sleeping figure of his sister stretched out across his sofa. Of course, he had known as soon as he'd seen the suitcase, but his breath still caught in his throat.

Three years—enough time for both of them to change. When he was younger, before everything had gone to shit, his mother's friends had always cooed over how alike he and Dora were, with their pinched faces and angular bodies. In many ways, they still looked similar, both of them all elbows and knees. To his chagrin, he suddenly noticed that Dora now wore her hair as short as his. It was standing on end, mussed up from sleep—it looked eerily like his hair did when he woke up in the mornings. 

Unsure of whether to laugh or groan, Jakes did both—at the sound, Dora stirred, groggily opening her eyes. Her eyebrows, just as imposing as Jakes’s, momentarily knitted together in confusion. But then she seemed to remember whose bedsit she had broken into, and a grin broke out across her face.

“Pete!” she said, practically leaping from the couch to throw her arms around his neck.

Jakes hugged her back just as enthusiastically, but took care to grumble into her hair, “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, shove off," Dora replied, releasing Jakes from her death-grip in order to hold him out at arms length. She gave him a once over, as older sisters are wont to do, before nodding, apparently satisfied. "I haven’t seen you in two years, at least let me call you what I like.”

“Three years," he corrected. "And you can call me Pete,” Jakes continued, with a smile, “but only if you want to sleep outside.”

Dora grinned back. “Point taken.”

Jakes wandered over to the sink to fill himself a glass of water, which he gulped down quickly. His mind was swimming with questions that threatened to bubble over any moment:  _Why are you here? How long are you staying? Are you in trouble? Where the fuck have you been?_ But too many questions, and he knew he'd scare her away. He downed a second glass of water. He needed to be fully sober for this. 

“You want something to eat?” he asked casually, settling on a simple question first, while popping two slices of bread in the toaster for himself.

“I’ve already taken the liberty to poke around your fridge—“

“—‘course you have—“

“—and I must say, slim pickings, Pete." She pretended not to notice the glare he shot her way as he plopped down beside her on the sofa. "Besides, I grabbed something at the station. But thank you.” She smiled at him and bit her lip, before adding, “Though I wouldn’t say no to a ciggy.”

At this, she reached across the sofa for his pack of Lucky Strikes, which Jakes teasingly snatched away.

“Oi, I gave you your first ever cigarette, kid.”

“Yeah, and’ve stolen mine ever since," Jakes replied, as he took one out and placed it between his lips. 

At this, Dora pouted, but didn't argue, because it was true. After a moment of feeling superior, however, Jakes relented and gave her one.

“Cheers.”

The sat together on the sofa, smoking in a silence that felt at once natural and strained. Their relationship was built on being apart—that's the way it'd always been. As kids, and even as teenagers, they'd always managed to fall back in sync even if they hadn't seen each other for days, weeks, months. But three years—that was a fucking long time, even for them.  

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft metallic twang of the toaster. He sprang up from the sofa, perhaps a bit too quickly, and rummaged through the refrigerator for butter. He scraped it across the toast with a knife, finding the repetitive motion vaguely calming, and decided to start with the easiest question first. “So, what’re you in Oxford for?”

“Oh, this and that," Dora said airily. 

“To seduce the undegrads?” he suggested.

“Nah, I’ve given up on women.”

“Really?” Jakes asked, incredulous. 

“’Course not,” she snorted, after a beat. “Have you?”

He chuckled. “Not likely.” He took a bite of toast and chewed it slowly. “But really, why’re you here?”

“Well, aren’t we curious?” After a long drag on her cigarette, she sighed. “Poetry conference, if you must know.”

Jakes made a sound.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, pretending to be very preoccupied with brushing the crumbs from his trousers.

“ _What?_ ” she laughed, and threw a sofa pillow at him. Luckily, her aim had always been rubbish, and hit the wall instead of Jakes's head.

“Just that you sound like one of the blokes I work with, harping on about poetry and the like.” He put the slices of toast on a plate and carried them over to the sofa. “I didn’t even know you wrote poetry. You any good?”

Dora ignored his question, instead meeting it with one of her own. “Would I like this ‘bloke’?”

“Probably not." Jakes took a large bite of toast to buy himself some time. "He’s a pompous ass. Though he's—"

"What?"

Jakes shrugged. "Bit different now. Shot about four months ago, see. He just started up at the station again.”

“Hmm.” Dora snuffed out her cigarette on the ashtray beside the sofa, and grabbed one of the slices of toast from Jakes's plate like he knew she would. “Still plodding along as a PC, then?”

At this, Jakes straightened up. “Detective Sergeant, actually.”

Dora started. “No shit?”

Jakes simply shrugged. “A lot happens in three years.”

Dora nodded, and picked nervously at the knee of her trousers. 

For the next few hours, they worked their way slowly through his pack of cigarettes, the room soon filling with a thick haze of smoke. The more they smoked, the more comfortable he felt, and he could tell it was the same for Dora. It almost felt like the old days, Peter and Dora against the world. Almost.

They were nearing the last few cigarettes in his pack when Jakes thought to glance down at his watch. He groaned loudly—3 o'clock in the morning. He was getting too old for this.

"Should probably go to bed," he mumbled. "You take the bed, I'll take the couch."

Dora only protested feebly, and he didn't blame her—going by the purple bruises under her eyes, she looked like she could use a good night's sleep.

He rummaged through his closet for a spare towel and toothbrush—Dora always seemed to forget the necessities—and settled himself on the couch for the night. He was pulling off his undershirt when he heard the bedroom door creak open, and Dora appeared in the living room, an uneasy look on her face. 

"Oi! I don't have any clothes on," Jakes grumbled sleepily.

"I've seen worse. Well, almost," Dora countered. She continued to stand in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, unsure. 

Jakes ran a cold hand over his face, and sighed. "What is it?"

“I’m just—I'm proud of you. Really.”

Jakes stared at his sister, an embarrassed smile on his face. He tried to ignore the flash of guilt in her eyes. "Goodnight, Dores."

"G'night, kid." 


End file.
